


A Rose In The Game (BBC Sherlock sister!fic)

by Flaming_Hearts14



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A mix of the literal script and scenes with my chacacters, Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Follows the Show, John is also there, Multi, OFC is gay af, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sherlock is a big brother, you'll like it i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-05-20 14:43:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19378810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flaming_Hearts14/pseuds/Flaming_Hearts14
Summary: When 15-year-old Rose Davenport's aunt is one of the serial suicide victims in London, she crosses paths with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock takes interest in the girl, seeing as she has a mind that works similar to the way his does. When she gets thrown out by an abusive father on one fateful night, her life changes forever. Join Rose as she accompanies Sherlock and John on cases and faces danger beyond measure. The game is on, and Rose is one of its best players.





	1. A Study In Pink

A/N: Quick author's note here. This story follows the episodes of Sherlock, but also adds in my own stuff with Rose. Also, any of Rose's thoughts will be in just italics. But anything Rose writes down (either in her journal or on her phone) will be bold AND in italics. Alright, enjoy!

-FH14

 

_**Dear Friend, It hurts. It hurts a lot, way more than it did last time something like this happened. Why does it hurt so much this time? I hate it. I hate how much it hurts. And now I’ve got to confirm it. How am I expected to confirm this? I’m just a kid, I can’t do this. I know I haven’t seen her in years, but this is going to be nearly impossible. Please, God. Please, just don’t let it be her.** _

_**-Rose** _

 

“Here we are.” the cabbie says. Rose looks up, her stomach doing a backflip at the sight of the building. She gives him a nod and hands him the money. She gets out of the cab, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she goes. The cab drives off and she sighs, smoothing out her outfit and pulling her jacket tighter around her. Why is she here? She shouldn’t be here. This shouldn’t be happening. Taking a deep breath, she walks up to the doors and pushes them open.

****

When Rose reaches the desk, she pulls the pre-written note from her pocket, and places it in front of the woman behind it.

 

_**I’m here to see Dr. Hooper.** _

 

“May I ask who you are?” Rose picks up the note and flips it over so she can read the other side. Rose Davenport. The woman gets a knowing look on her face, and sighs. “You can go on up to the 4th floor, Lab 19. Dr. Hooper is in one of the morgues.” the woman says, and Rose nods, walking towards the lift. She presses the button and gets in as the doors close. The lift dings, and she nervously exits. She walks down a corridor and stops outside Lab 19. She balls one of her shaking hands into a fist and knocks 3 times.

 

“Molly, I told you I need to-” A tall man with curly hair pulls the door open, but stops when he sees Rose standing there. He’s holding a riding crop, and she just stares at him. “Who are you?” he asks. She fumbles through her bag and grabs her journal. When she makes a grab in her pocket for her pen, she finds it isn’t there. It must have fallen out when she grabbed the note! Starting to panic at the fact this man was waiting for an answer, she feels through her bag. He clears his throat. When she looks up, she expects to see an annoyed look, but she doesn’t. Instead, she sees him holding a pen out to her. Her panic leaves her, and she takes it, avoiding his eyes.

 

_**Thanks. I’m looking for Dr. Hooper?** _

 

“She’s popped out, but she should be back in a few minutes.” he replies, and she sighs, tears pricking in her eyes. She just wants to get this over with. If this really is happening, she doesn’t want to wait; the anticipation will be the death of her. “You… uh… you can wait here, though.” She looks at him, and he seems a little surprised to see the slight fear in her eyes. But it doesn’t seem to be of just him; it seems as though it’s of everything. “You never did answer my question.”

 

_**Rose Davenport.** _

 

“Ah, I do believe Molly may have mentioned you were stopping by.” He holds a hand out to her, but the sudden movement makes her jump back slightly. He raises his eyebrows. “Sherlock Holmes.” he introduces, and she curses herself for acting like a wounded animal. She shakes his hand, and he notices that her hands are shaking. “Come in, then.” he says. “Molly would only yell if you stay out here.” She eyes the crop. “Don’t tell me your scared of this too, then?” The way he says it makes her ashamed.

 

_**I’ll just wait out here.** _

 

“No no, you might as well.” he tells her, walking back into the lab and putting the riding crop down on a table. Slowly, she steps into the lab. What’s the riding crop for? She clears her throat, and he turns to see her holding up her journal so he can see what’s written. “Experiment.” is all he says. She notices the body on the slab, and sees marks on it. How long do you think it’ll be before the bruises show? He raises his eyebrows. “You can tell that’s what I was experimenting.” he concludes. “How?”

 

_**You’re the only one in here, and your forehead has perspiration on it, so you’ve been doing some kind of work that requires physical strength. That body is also the only slab that’s uncovered amongst all the others. I can see that the original marks are gone, but there’s still slight skin irritation in certain areas of the body. Since they’re beginning to fade but still have the irritation, I can conclude that they are fresh, not anti-mortem. You said you’re doing an experiment, one that apparently involves a riding crop. Since they’re fresh and they were put by something hard, that means you put them there. The most logical experiment that would involve whipping a dead corpse would be waiting to see how long it takes for bruising to become evident. So, physical work, plus reddened skin, plus riding crop equals bruising experiment.** _

 

He just stares at her and opens his mouth to say something, but Molly walks in before he can. “Sherlock, I-” She notices Rose. “Oh, you must be Rose Davenport?”

 

“Indeed she is, Molly.” Sherlock says, and Molly holds a hand out to her.

 

“Molly Hooper.” she introduces. Rose shakes it.

 

_**Nice to meet you.** _

 

“And you.” she says, smiling. “I’m ever so sorry we had to meet under these conditions.”

 

**Me too.**

 

“I suppose you’d like to get this over with, then?”

 

_**Yes, indeed.** _

 

Sherlock watches curiously from the side. “Alright then.” Molly says, and she walks over to the Mortuary Freezer, looking at the little name tags. “Ah.” She opens the hatch and a slab slides out about halfway. Rose sighs at the sight of a sheet-covered body. “Are you ready?” Molly asks sympathetically, and she nods, standing next to her. When she pulls back the sheet, Rose whimpers. She looks up at the ceiling, away from the body.

 

_**It’s her.** _

 

She furiously rips the page from the journal and slams it down on one of the lab tables. Walking out of the lab, she lets the door slam behind her, tears already streaming down her face. Molly sighs, tearing when she reads the note.

 

“Oh, god.”

 

“It’s someone she knows.” Sherlock concludes.

 

“Her aunt.” she confirms, sadness evident in her voice.

 

“Cause of death?”

 

“Suicide.” He nods.

 

“Pity.”


	2. Deducing Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Since you've moved onto the second chapter, I'll introduce myself! I'm Ray, AKA Flaming_Hearts14. I've got lots of chapters for this story and I'm incredibly proud of it. I think you'll really enjoy it.  
> Cheers!  
> FH14

THE NEXT DAY  
Detective Inspector Lestrade rushes up the steps of 221B Baker Street.

  
“Where?” Sherlock asks.

 

“Brixton,” The DI says. “Lauriston Gardens.”

 

“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

  
“You know how they never leave notes?”

  
“Yeah.”

  
“This one did. Will you come?”

  
“Who’s on forensics?”

  
“Anderson.”

  
Sherlock grimaces.

  
“Anderson won’t work with me.”

  
“Well he won’t be your assistant.”

  
“I need an assistant.”

  
“Will you come?”

  
“Not in a police car.” he replies. “I’ll be right behind.”

  
“Thank you.”

  
Looking round at John and Mrs Hudson for a moment, he turns and hurries off down the stairs. Sherlock waits until he has reached the front door, then leaps into the air triumphantly before twirling around the room happily.

 

“Brilliant!” he exclaims. “Yes! Ah, four serial suicides and now a note! Oh, it’s Christmas!” Picking up his scarf and coat he starts to put them on while heading for the kitchen. “Mrs Hudson, I’ll be late. Might need some food.”

  
“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.” she explains.

  
“Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!” he calls. Grabbing a small leather pouch from the kitchen table, he opens the kitchen door and leaves. Mrs Hudson turns to John.

  
“Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same.” she says, and John grimaces. He’s not gay! “But you’re more the sitting-down type, I can tell.” He sighs, uncomfortable. “I’ll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg.”

  
“Damn my leg!” John shouts impulsively, and he immediately regrets it. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s just sometimes this bloody thing…” He bashes it with his cane.

  
“I understand, dear; I’ve got a hip.”

  
“Cup of tea’d be lovely, thank you.”

  
“Just this once, dear. I’m not your housekeeper.”

  
“Couple of biscuits too, if you’ve got ’em.” he says, picking up a newspaper.

  
“Not your housekeeper!”

  
He looks at the article about Beth Davenport’s suicide.

  
“You’re a doctor.” a voice says, and John looks up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway. “In fact you’re an Army doctor.”

  
“Yes.” He gets to his feet and turns towards Sherlock as he comes back into the room again.

  
“Any good?”

  
“Very good.”

  
“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths.”

  
“Yes.”

  
“Bit of trouble too, I bet.”

  
“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

  
“Wanna see some more?”

  
“Oh god, yes.” John replies fervently. Sherlock spins on his heel and leads him out of the room and down the stairs. “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll skip the tea.” he calls. “Off out.”

“Both of you?” she asks from the bottom of the stairs. Sherlock has almost reached the front door but now turns and walks back towards her.

  
“Impossible suicides? Four of them? There’s no point sitting at home when there’s finally something fun going on!” he says, taking hold of her shoulders and noisily kissing her cheek.

  
“Look at you, all happy. It’s not decent.”

  
“Who cares about decent?” he says. “The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!”

****

_**Dear Friend,** _

_**I know it’s been years since I’ve seen her. I know there was nothing I could do. But she’s gone. How can she be gone? How can my aunt be dead? I’m never going to be able to talk to her ever again. How is that possible? How does that happen?** _

_**-Rose** _

 

Rose sighs, putting her journal and pen in her bag.

  
“Medium hot chocolate?”

  
She gets up from her seat, walks over to the counter, and collects her drink, then exits the coffee shop. As she starts to walk, she stops, seeing the yellow tape down the road that indicates a crime scene. Eyeing it curiously, she sees a man come rushing out into the street, looking deep in thought. When he looks up and sees her standing there, he stops. She recognizes him as Sherlock.

  
“Um…” he stumbles for a moment. She just smiles slightly and waves to him with her free hand. “I know you from somewhere.” She grabs her phone from her pocket. He seems to be in a rush, and she can type faster than she can write. She turns her phone so she can show him.

  
_**We met at St. Bart’s the other day, in the morgue. I’m Rose Davenport.** _

__

“Ah, yes.” He says. “You were afraid of me.” She sighs and types again, then shows it to him.

  
_**Trust me, I’m not afraid of you. I’m just a bit of a jumpy person. I’m sorry if I acted strangely.** _

“Jumpy person, eh?” He asks, and she nods. “I suppose it’s to be expected from a girl who’s being abused by an alcoholic father.” Her eyes widen. “Don’t be too surprised, knowing things about people is my specialty. Want to know how I know?” She nods. “When we met in the morgue, I could see the faint outline of bruises on your wrist, from where someone grabbed you. It had to be someone strong, because they grabbed you hard enough to bruise. You panicked when you couldn’t find your pen, thinking I would get impatient and possibly angry; two traits violent alcoholics always have. When you saw me, you were intimidated. However, when Molly Hooper walked in, you had no startled or intimidated reaction, meaning your abuser is a man. You’re only 14 to 16 years old, so it’s unlikely that it would be a boyfriend, so this led me to father. Eye contact seemed impossible for you to make with me, but you had no problem looking Molly in the eye when she spoke to you. This led me to believe that you have a male authority figure that must uphold the idea of his own superiority; perhaps even a God Complex. You used makeup to cover up bruises on your nose, but I know a bruise when I see one, even when it’s hidden. Your sleeve also came up a bit on your right arm, and I could see scratches, healing wounds, and scars, meaning you had likely been attacked. All of these things lead me to believe that you’re currently facing physical abuse from a violent alcoholic father. As for your mutism, that could be from psychological damage due to either your father or another traumatizing event. I’m assuming all that was correct?”

She stares at him, tears running down her face.

  
_**Yeah.** _

  
He sees her crying, but says nothing. What can he say?

  
“You could file a police report, you know.” Is all he says.

  
_**Nobody can know. Don’t tell anyone you saw me here tonight. Goodnight, Mr. Holmes.** _

  
She rushes off down the road, and Sherlock just stares after her, then goes to head to the main road in order to catch a cab.


	3. Mrs. Hudson Took My Skull

Upstairs in the living room of the flat, Sherlock is lying stretched out on the sofa with his head towards the window and resting on a cushion. With his jacket off and his shirt sleeves unbuttoned and pushed up his arms, he has his eyes closed and he is pressing his right hand into his left elbow. After some seconds his eyes snap open wide and he stares fixedly up towards the ceiling, then he sighs out a noisy breath and relaxes. John comes through the door, then stops and stares as Sherlock repeatedly clenches and unclenches his left fist.

  
“What are you doing?” He asks, and he pushes his sleeve to show he has three round patches on his arm.

  
“Nicotine patch.” The detective replies calmly. “Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work.” He loudly clicks the ‘k’ on the last word as John walks further into the room.

  
“It’s good news for breathing.” He tells him.

  
“Oh, breathing. Breathing’s boring.” He says dismissively, and John frowns as he looks more closely at his arm.

  
“Is that three patches?” Sherlock presses his hands together in a prayer position under his chin.

  
“It’s a three-patch problem.” He says simply, closing his eyes. John looks around the room for a moment, then back at Sherlock again.

  
“Well?” Nothing. “You asked me to come. I’m assuming it’s important.” Sherlock still doesn’t respond instantly, but after a couple of seconds his eyes snap open. He doesn’t bother turning his head to look at John as he speaks.

  
“Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?”

  
“My phone?”

  
“Don’t wanna use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognised. It’s on the website.”

  
“Mrs Hudson’s got a phone.”

“Yeah, she’s downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn’t hear.” This makes John start to get a little angry.

“I was the other side of London.”

  
“There was no hurry.” He tells him mildly. John glares at him as he gazes serenely at the ceiling before closing his eyes again. Eventually the army doctor digs his phone out of his jacket pocket and holds it towards him.

  
“Here.” Without opening his eyes, Sherlock holds out his right hand with the palm up. John glowers at him for a moment, then steps forward and slaps the phone into his hand. Sherlock slowly lifts his arm and puts his hands together again, this time with the phone in between his palms. John turns and walks a few paces away before turning around again. “So what’s this about – the case?”

  
“Her case.” Sherlock says softly.

“Her case?” He opens his eyes.

  
“Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake.”

  
“Okay, he took her case. So?”

  
“It’s no use, there’s no other way. We’ll have to risk it.” He speaks quietly and more to himself than to John. Raising his voice a little, he imperiously holds the phone out towards him, still not looking at him. “On my desk there’s a number. I want you to send a text.”

  
John half-smiles in angry disbelief.

  
“You brought me here…” he says tightly. “to send a text.”

  
“Text, yes.” He’s obviously oblivious to the anger. “The number on my desk.” He continues to hold the phone out while John glowers at him, possibly wondering if he can get away with justifiable homicide. Eventually he stomps across the room and snatches the phone from the other man’s hand. Sherlock refolds his hands under his chin and closes his eyes but instead of going to the table, John walks over to the window and looks out of it into the street below. Sherlock opens his eyes and tilts his head slightly towards him. “What’s wrong?”

  
“Just met a friend of yours.” This earns a confused frown.

  
“A friend?”

  
“An enemy.” Sherlock immediately relaxes.

  
“Oh.” he says calmly. “Which one?”

  
“Your arch-enemy, according to him. Do people have arch-enemies?” Sherlock looks towards him, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

  
“Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“Did you take it?”

  
“No.”

  
“Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.”

  
“Who is he?”

  
“The most dangerous man you’ve ever met, and not my problem right now. On my desk, the number.” John gives him a dark look but Sherlock has already looked away again so John walks over to the desk and picks up a piece of paper taken from a luggage label. He looks at the name on the paper.

  
“Jennifer Wilson.” He reads. “That was... Hang on. Wasn’t that the dead woman?”

  
“Yes. That’s not important. Just enter the number.” Shaking his head, John gets his phone out and starts to type the number onto it. “Are you doing it?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“Have you done it?”

  
“Ye-... hang on!

  
“These words exactly:” Sherlock tells him. “‘What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out’.” John starts to type but looks briefly across to him as if concerned at what he just said, but he just continues his narration. “‘Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come’.” Now he looks across to Sherlock again, frowning.

  
“You blacked out?”

  
“What? No. No!” He flips his legs around and stands up, taking the shortest route towards the kitchen – which involves walking over the coffee table beside the sofa rather than around it. “Type and send it. Quickly.”

  
Going into the kitchen, he picks up a small pink suitcase from a chair and brings it back into the living room. Walking over to the dining table, he lifts one of the dining chairs and flips it around, setting it down in front of one of the two armchairs near the fireplace. He puts the suitcase onto the dining chair and sits down in the armchair. John is still typing.

  
“Have you sent it?” He asks.

 

“What’s the address?” John asks.

  
“Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Hurry up!” He replies impatiently. John finishes the message, then looks round as Sherlock unzips the case and flips open the lid, revealing the contents. As John turns towards the case he staggers slightly in shock when he realises what he’s looking at.

  
“That’s…” He starts. “that’s the pink lady’s case. That’s Jennifer Wilson’s case.”

  
“Yes, obviously.” Sherlock responds. John continues to stare, and he looks up at him and then rolls his eyes. “Oh, perhaps I should mention: I didn’t kill her.”

  
“I never said you did.”

  
“Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it’s a perfectly logical assumption.”

  
“Do people usually assume you’re the murderer?”

  
“Now and then, yes.” He replies with a smirk.He puts his hands onto the arms of the armchair and lifts his feet up and under him so that he is perching on the seat with his backside braced against the backrest, then clasps his hands under his chin.

  
“Okay…” He limps across the room and drops heavily into the armchair on the other side of the fireplace. “How did you get this?”

  
“By looking.”

  
“Where?”

  
“The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely – so obviously he’d feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.”

  
“Pink. You got all that because you realised the case would be pink?”

  
“Well, it had to be pink, obviously.”

  
“Why didn’t I think of that?” John asks himself.

  
“Because you’re an idiot.” John looks across to him, startled, and Sherlock makes a placatory gesture with one hand. “No, no, no, don’t look like that. Practically everyone is.” He thinks of Rose when he says this.

  
_She definitely wasn't an idiot._

  
He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. He refolds his hands and then extends his index finger to point at the case.

  
“Now, look. Do you see what’s missing?” He asks.

  
“From the case? How could I?” John counters.

  
“Her phone. Where’s her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there’s no phone in the case. We know she had one – that’s her number there; you just texted it.”

  
“Maybe she left it at home.” Sherlock puts his hands onto the arms of the chair and raises himself up so that he can lower his feet to the floor, then sits down properly on the chair.

  
“She has a string of lovers,” he says. “and she’s careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home.” He puts the slip of paper back into the luggage label on the case and looks at John expectantly.

  
“Er…” He looks down at his mobile phone which he has put onto the arm of his chair. “Why did I just send that text?”

  
“Well, the question is: where is her phone now?”

  
“She could have lost it.” John offers.

  
“Yes, or…?”

  
“The murderer…” He says slowly. “You think the murderer has the phone?”

  
“Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone.”

  
“Sorry, what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer?! What good will that do?” Suddenly, his phone begins to ring. He picks it up and looks at the screen for the Caller I.D. It reads: “(withheld)

Calling”. He looks across to Sherlock as the phone continues to ring.

  
“A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her.” he says. “If somebody had just found that phone they’d ignore a text like that, but the murderer…” He pauses dramatically until the phone stops ringing. “...would panic.” He flips the lid of the suitcase closed and stands up, walking across the room to pick up his jacket. As John continues to stare down at his phone, Sherlock puts on his jacket and walks towards the door.

  
“Have you talked to the police?” John asks him, finally looking up.

  
“Four people are dead. There isn’t time to talk to the police.”

  
“So why are you talking to me?”

 

Sherlock reaches behind the door to take his greatcoat from the hook. As he looks across towards John he notices that something is missing from the mantelpiece.

 

“Mrs Hudson took my skull.” he replies simply.

  
  



	4. 22 Northumberland Street

“So I’m basically filling in for your skull?”

 

“Relax,” he says, pulling on his coat. “you’re doing fine.” He looks at John expectantly when he doesn’t move. “Well?”

 

“Well what?”

 

“Well, you could just sit there and watch telly.”

 

“What, you want me to come with you?” he asks him.

 

“I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so…” John smiles briefly. “Problem?”

 

“Yeah, Sergeant Donovan.”

 

“What about her?” Sherlock asks, looking away in exasperation.

 

“She said... You get off on this. You enjoy it.”

 

“And I said ‘dangerous’,” he counters nonchalantly. “and here you are.” Instantly he turns and walks out of the door. John sits there thoughtfully for a few seconds, then almost angrily leans onto his cane to push himself to his feet and head for the door.

 

“Damn it!” he curses. Not too long after, John catches up to Sherlock in the street and they continue down the road.

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“Northumberland Street’s a five-minute walk from here.”

 

“You think he’s stupid enough to go there?” Sherlock smiles expectantly.

 

“No– I think he’s brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones. They’re always so desperate to get caught.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. That’s the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience.” John looks pointedly at him.

 

“Yeah.” he says. Oblivious to the implication, Sherlock spins around when he hears yelling coming from a flat a little ways down.

 

“You’re worthless, you piece of shit!”

 

John looks to the flat, and they both see a man holding a beer bottle in one hand, and a fistful of a redhead girl’s hair in the other hand.

 

“Stay out, you worthless mute!”

 

He throws her to the ground, grabs something from the doorway and throws that at her, then slams the front door behind him. Sherlock and John immediately rush over to the young girl, and John grabs the pair of glasses on the ground and hands them to her, knowing they’re clearly hers. When she puts them on, Sherlock recognizes her.

 

“Are you alright?” John asks as she slips her glasses onto her face.

 

“She won’t respond.” Sherlock tells him, and she looks at him. “Hello, Rose.” She fumbles through her pockets and grabs her phone.

 

Hi, Sherlock.

 

“You two know each other?” John asks, clearly confused.

 

“I met her in the morgue.” he replies. “She was identifying her aunt. This is Rose Davenport. Rose, this is Doctor John Watson.” As they nod to each other, he notices that her face, arms and neck are littered with bruises. “I suppose you didn’t get to cover them this time.”

 

He started drinking early tonight. I didn’t have time.

 

“You need some ice, love.” John says.

 

“Bring her with us.” Sherlock says.

 

“Really?”

 

“Well, she can’t exactly go back home, now can she?”

 

I can find somewhere to go.

 

“Or you could skip the search and come with us.” John explains, and she sighs, but gives in. He helps Rose to her feet and he sees her grab what her father threw, which is her bag. “You must be freezing.” He says, seeing her simple tank top. He goes to take off his coat, but she shakes her head to stop him. She reaches into her bag and pulls out her own coat, which looks like one quite similar to Sherlock’s.

 

“Here.” Sherlock says, handing her his scarf. “Don’t want it to look like we’re the ones that put those bruises there.”

 

“How very sensitive of you, Sherlock.” John says sarcastically.

 

It’s okay, I understand. Thank you.

 

She takes the scarf and wraps it around her neck, covering the visible bruises.

 

“Do you always keep a jacket in your bag, or…?” John trails off, and she nods.

 

I always keep it packed. Never know when I get a chance to leave the house.

 

John nods, and they start walking.

 

“This is his hunting ground.” Sherlock says.

 

“Really?” John asks. “Now?” His protests are ignored.

 

“Right here in the heart of the city.” Sherlock continues. “Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go.” He holds his hands up on either side of his head as if to focus his thoughts. “Think! Who do we trust, even though we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?” Rose seems quite intrigued.

 

“Dunno. Who?”

 

“Haven’t the faintest.” he says, shrugging. “Hungry?”

 

Lowering his hands, he leads John and Rose onward and into a small restaurant.

 

Is he always like this?

 

“I’m starting to think so.” He replies. The waiter near the door clearly knows Sherlock and gestures to a reserved table at the front window.

 

“Thank you, Billy.” he says.

 

Taking his coat off, he sits down on the bench seat at the side of the table and immediately turns sideways so that he can see clearly out of the window. As Billy takes the ‘Reserved’ sign off the table, John sits down on the other bench seat with his back to the window, and takes off his jacket. On the other side of the table is a wall, so Rose awkwardly slips into the seat next to John.

 

“Twenty-two Northumberland Street.” Sherlock nods over to the house across the street. “Keep your eyes on it.”

 

“He isn’t just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He’d need to be mad.”

 

“He has killed four people.”

 

“...Okay.”

 

Are we staking out a murderer?

 

In unison, John says no and Sherlock says yes. The manager/owner of the restaurant comes over, clearly pleased to see Sherlock.

 

“Sherlock.” he says happily as they shake hands. “Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free.” He places a menu in front of the three of them. He lays a couple of menus on the table. “On the house, for the girl, for you and for your date.

 

“Do you want to eat?” Sherlock asks the two of them, and he notices Rose shift uncomfortably.

 

“I’m not his date.” John tells the owner.

 

“This man got me off a murder charge.” the owner says.

 

“This is Angelo.” Sherlock explains as Angelo offers his hand to John, who shakes it. He shakes Rose’s hand as well, giving her a look at some of the bruises on her face. “Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking.”

 

“He cleared my name.” Angelo explains.

 

“I cleared it a bit.” Sherlock counters. “Anything happening opposite?”

 

“Nothing.” he says. “But for this man, I’d have gone to prison.”

 

“You did go to prison.” Sherlock reminds him.

 

“I’ll get a candle for the table. It’s more romantic.” He walks off.

 

“I’m not his date!” John calls after him, and he looks at Sherlock. “Who brings a kid on a date anyways?”

 

I’m assuming I’m intruding on your “not a date”.

 

“Watch it.” John says to her jokingly.


End file.
